


Mrs. Hudson Ships Everything

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Greg and Martha are FRIENDS, M/M, MCD is not the boys, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Parental Mrs. Hudson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 13:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mrs. Hudson has known Greg Lestrade since he was a boy. They have a lot in common, not the least of which is their belief that John and Sherlock belong together. Little does Greg know, Martha is determined to make everyone happy, even if it takes a little meddling.





	1. Martha Hudson, Professional Shipper

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: Introduction  
> Chapter 2: Lost At Sea (the catalyst)  
> Chapter 3: Mystrade  
> Chapter 4: Johnlock  
> Chapter 5 and beyond....who knows? ;)

“Martha?” Greg let himself in the kitchen door, wiping his feet automatically. When she appeared he grinned, bussing her on the cheek as she waved him off, blushing. That was the point of course; he bussed so she would wave him off. They’d had the same pattern since he was a boy, though it had reversed for a few years there, his pre-teenage-self more likely to wave off than voluntarily buss anyone’s cheek. She’d moved to the US for a while, following that loser of a husband and they’d lost contact. He was so pleased when she moved to London, living close enough he could visit. Kismet or karma or something had brought Sherlock into their lives independently from each other; when he’d first realised Sherlock lived in 221 Baker Street, it had eased his mind. Martha Hudson was a lot of things, but meek was not one of them. She’d been around the block (and he meant that with the utmost respect) and he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to rip into Sherlock if he needed it.

Ever since she’d moved into Baker Street, Greg had made a point to visit at least every couple of weeks; the pleasure on her face when he appeared made it worth the effort. She was also good for an excellent cup of tea and a few biscuits, not to mention the motherly advice and sympathy he secretly craved since his own mother had passed away. She in turn loved heaping him with advice and homemade treats, mothering him in lieu of her own sons, living their lives in their native America. It was mutually beneficial, and they both cherished the relationship.

In summary, Greg Lestrade and Marth Hudson were firm friends. They also shared one key interest: defining and subtly altering the relationship between Sherlock and John Watson, the flatmate. He had been the New Flatmate for a while, but after six weeks (longer than anyone had put up with Sherlock), he’d been upgraded to simply the flatmate. Of course, neither Greg nor Martha really believed it was just friends; Greg had snorted hard enough to make tea come out of his nose when Martha had said John insisted he wasn’t gay.

“You should see how he looks at Sherlock,” Greg had choked, wiping at his face with a napkin. “Calling Sherlock brilliant, breathing it really. Not that he minded of course, but still.”

“Oh I know,” Martha had commiserated, filling his cup from the teapot. “The way they carry on, they’re like a married couple.” The analysis of the non-relationship between Sherlock and John continued, each reporting the interactions they had seen, the answers to test questions or suggestions. Every nuance was dissected, every word carefully considered. There was an ongoing debate about which of the two would cave first; Greg thought Sherlock would, but Martha was firmly of the belief that it would be John who first confessed his feelings. “He’s more sensitive that he lets on,” she said wisely, one rainy Wednesday evening. “He has nightmares, you know.”

“How do you know that?” asked Greg. He took another biscuit without asking – she was always pleased to see him eating her biscuits.

“I asked him.” Martha replied, giggling at herself. “I was up late one night – my hip, you know – and I could hear someone moving around. I knew it wasn’t Sherlock, he never makes an effort to be quiet. So I asked John the next day and he said he’d had trouble sleeping.”

“And you think he meant nightmares,” stated Greg.

“Well he’s not going to come out and admit it, is he?” Martha said in exasperation. “He doesn’t know me well enough yet.” Her look grew fond. “But Sherlock…they’re getting closer, you know.”

Greg rolled his eyes – he was very aware of how ridiculous the two of them were, poring over John and Sherlock like obsessive fans. Sometimes he felt guilty, manipulating them the way they did.

Mrs Hudson was the worst – she would remind John that Sherlock needed hobnobs, shamelessly suggesting John pick up a box next time he was at Tesco. It wasn’t unheard of for her to bluntly tell Sherlock to stop playing at night for a few days, either, pointing out how tired John looked. She was always careful to have these little conversations out of the hearing of the other flatmate; Greg wondered if either told the other where their inspiration came from. Or did both of them think that they had a particularly considerate flatmate? Not John, surely. Although Greg had overheard John telling the new uniform that Sherlock could, ‘have his moments.’ Greg had described the expression on John’s face as ‘almost affectionate’ when he’d reported back to Martha; she’d sighed, partly happy and partly wistful.

“Why can’t they see it?” she asked him, and he had to shrug. It was clear as a bell to both of them, and yet Sherlock and John remained as clueless as ever.

Today there was nothing new to report, so they talked a little bit about Greg’s life (boring), Martha’s sons (interesting to her, mildly interesting to Greg), and the state of the British Empire (a constant source of angst for Martha). Once they’d exhausted these topics, there was a pause. As soon as Martha opened her mouth, Greg knew she was going to return to their favourite topic.

“We need to take drastic action,” she declared.

“Pardon?” asked Greg. This was unexpected. There were often vague ideas about pushing them a little harder towards each other, but…

“We’ve been inching around the edges of this for too long. We need a proper plan. They need their heads banged together, those two.” Martha shook her head, and Greg grinned at her indulgently. She was off on one of her ‘they’ll never get together’ rants, then. “Maybe I could do something to John’s bedroom so he had to sleep in Sherlock’s room for a while,” she mused.

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Greg said, a little startled that she had obviously been thinking seriously about doing this. She’d never been so determined before.

“Gregory, this needs to be resolved. I am not getting any younger, and I want to see them settled before I go.” Greg shifted uncomfortably at this mention of her mortality. Despite his job, he didn’t like to deal with death on a personal level. Too much experience of it already.

“Well, I mean there’s no guarantee John will sleep in Sherlock’s room, is there?” Greg asked in what he hoped was a logical fashion.

“Hmm, you’re right,” she looked thoughtful for a moment as Greg sipped at his tea. “Perhaps it needs a more direct route. I could sit John down, or you could…”

“No, no, no,” Greg said. “I don’t want any part of this. No, Martha,” he said firmly, seeing the look in her eyes. “I don’t want to get in the middle of this. We don’t even know if John’s interested in men, let alone Sherlock!”

“Oh labels don’t matter,” Martha said dismissively. “He’s interested in Sherlock, the rest doesn’t matter. Maybe they need a traumatic event, something to bring them closer together?”

“Do not kill someone just for this,” Greg said severely. “I’d have to do all that paperwork.”

“Or a secret letter, one to each of them from the other?” Greg could see that he’d lost her; she was working through more outrageous plans to push John and Sherlock together.

“I’ll leave you to your scheming, will I?” Greg said affectionately, kissing her cheek as he stood. She was so distracted she didn’t wave him off. Just when he thought she hadn’t noticed him leaving, Martha called, “Don’t think you’re escaping my notice either, Gregory Philip. When I’ve got these two sorted, I’m turning my attention to you. Better start thinking about who you fancy or I’ll be setting you up myself!”

Greg chuckled at he left, covering the slightly alarmed sensation her words triggered. He hadn’t realised Martha thought he needed someone; obviously though she’d thought about it quite a lot. As he walked the few blocks home, Greg started to ponder her directive – who did he fancy? Was there someone he’d like to get to know better? Without realising it, an image rose in his mind. Auburn hair, piercing blue eyes, a perfectly tailored suit, legs forever. Whenever Greg wondered about Mycroft, he knew he bore more than a passing interest in his…contact? Not friend, probably. Colleague? Ally, certainly. They had worked together for Sherlock’s benefit for a while now, and their dinners had rarely stepped out of the professional conversation, but Greg had gleaned several pieces of information, carefully tucked away to help him round out the image of Mycroft that lay under that placid façade.

Mycroft was dryly funny, occasionally even at his own expense; he was aware of his reputation and was not averse to a gentle joke about his ‘minor position in the British Government’. He and Sherlock had been close at one point, but something had happened around the time Sherlock hit puberty; the guilt Mycroft carried meant it was probably something he did, or had to do. It explained the way he hung over Sherlock, the over protective big brother. Mycroft had no interest in sport beyond what was politically advantageous for him to know, but he had an extensive knowledge of and appreciation for classical music and Shakespearean plays – the political, not the romantic.

Reaching his building, Greg shook his head. No point thinking about that. Short of declaring himself, as Martha would say, Greg never thought he’d know how Mycroft felt about him – if he felt anything at all. For all he knew, Greg was just the DI who helped with his little brother, nothing more.


	2. Lost At Sea

The phone call came early in the morning, before Greg was even up.

“’Lo?” he answered, already rolling out of bed. There was only one reason a homicide detective was woken by a phone call at 5.18am, and it always required him up and out as quickly as possible.

“Greg, it’s John.” If he hadn’t identified himself Greg might not have placed the voice. It was higher pitched than usual, mostly steady but with the distinct thread of tension Greg knew so well.

“John? What is it? Is it Sherlock?” Greg asked. Two reasons, he amended in his head – he had the special case of Sherlock Holmes to add to his list.

“No, not Sherlock. Shit, can you just get over here?”

“Five minutes.” Greg said, pulling on jeans and a jumper, grabbing his phone and the coat he left ready to go overnight with his ID and wallet. He clattered down two flights of stairs, cold dread settling like lead in his stomach. There were only three people living at 221 Baker Street, and if it wasn’t John or Sherlock…As soon as he hit the pavement Greg started running, grateful he was so close already. As he rounded the corner he could see John standing on the street waiting for him.

Greg slowed to a walk, steeling himself. No ambulance. Not good. “John?” he asked.

John’s face was empathy and misery. “I’m sorry, Greg. She’s gone.” The words made it real, the unthinkable he had been pushing away as he ran towards Baker Street.

“Gone,” repeated Greg.

“Her light was still on when we got home half an hour ago. She never leaves the kitchen lights on, even when she was up in the night.” Part of Greg’s brain registered the varying tenses in John’s speech as he got used to the news. “I think it was a heart attack. Something quick, maybe an aneurysm. She’s been gone for a few hours.”

Greg blinked. “You’re sure?” he wasn’t questioning John, but maybe there was a mistake.

“I’m sure, Greg.” John’s voice was low and calmer than he had been on the phone. “Do you want to see her?”

Greg shook his head, unable to speak. “I think…I need to sit down. I…can I…” he gestured upstairs, and John nodded, following him up the interminable flight of stairs to 221b. Sherlock took one look at him and stepped into the kitchen, making tea if the sounds were anything to go by.

“Wonders will never cease,” John muttered as Sherlock brought a tea tray out for them all. Greg sipped at the hot liquid, winkling his nose at the sweetness.

“Sugar for shock, Greg.” Sherlock murmured soberly. Greg nodded, not mentioning the correct use of his name. He looked at Sherlock, really looked, and saw the sadness flitting across his face. He’d forgotten that Sherlock had known Martha for almost as long as Greg; the years he was in the police academy, then she was in the US, evened out the numbers somewhat.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Greg offered.

“So am I,” he replied. They all nodded, sitting in the shocked silence of their flat.

“I should make the call,” Greg said. “We can’t- She can’t stay downstairs all day.”

John nodded stiffly, and Sherlock stood without a word, walking into his bedroom and closing the door quietly. John indicated the door with his head, and Greg nodded – John would go to Sherlock while Greg called in the death. He packed away his grief for a while. Martha needed him to do this last favour for her.


	3. Greg and Mycroft

 

When the letter arrived in the mail three weeks later, Greg had to sit down, right there on the bottom step of his building’s entranceway. The familiar cursive writing, so elegant and old fashioned. It was like an unexpected hug from someone you thought was gone. Only she _was_ gone. Greg took a few deep breaths and finally made it up the stairs to his flat, steering past the kettle in favour of the good Scotch. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Opening the letter, he poured himself a stiff measure and began to read.

 

_Dearest Gregory,_

_I have left this letter in possession of my lawyer, who will post it to you when he is informed of my death. Knowing him, though, he won’t get around to it right away. I’ll assume then, that I’ve been gone a little while, and you’re still grieving my loss. If it’s been more than a few weeks, I’ll say this to you – don’t waste any more of your life on this nonsense. We had a lot of good years, and I will miss you of course, but I was always going to go before you, so you need to get on with it._

_I’m leaving the Sherlock and John problem up to you now, though I have put a few little things in place lately. With any luck, you won’t have to do a single thing, they will move towards each other now. Maybe in their mutual grief (am I too self-important to think they would miss me?), maybe the natural way of things. Make sure Sherlock in particular doesn’t do anything too silly; he doesn’t always use that big brain of his, and John’s heart is more fragile than Sherlock might know._

_Even before you see them settled together, I want you to do one thing for me. Sit down somewhere and think, really think about who you would like to get to know better. If there is nobody in your life that fits the bill, get out and meet people until someone strikes your interest. Please Greg, I don’t want to think of you as a lonely old man. I had my boys, my own boys, and always you, and then Sherlock and John; I know you and Celia never got to children but I don’t want you to be alone. Please, think of that person and be brave. Ask a question, or offer something._

_By now I am assuming you know the contents of my will, too. My boys inherited a lot of money from the passing of their father, and I have spoken to both to explain my reasoning. I am leaving Baker Street in trust to you, my dear boy, with the sole condition that you do not charge rent to Sherlock and John. You all need a hand, and I sincerely hope this will bring you together in the future._

_With love,_

_Martha J. Hudson_

 

Blinking back tears, Greg stared blinding at the paper. The image swam as tears dropped, landing on the bench. Greg heard the paper shifting and realised his hand was shaking. With a choked oath, he dropped it and downed the remaining Scotch.

“Bloody hell, Martha,” he choked out. What was she playing at? A laugh bubbled up and he let it out, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, loud in the quiet of his flat. Even after she was gone, she had a plan, she was trying to get him to find someone. To be happy. He re-read the last part again. _I sincerely hope this will bring you together in the future_. She worried he would be lonely. With a pang of guilt, Greg wondered how lonely Martha had been. She might have had the three of them, her boys, and her sons; but it wasn’t the same as having a partner, a lover. He’d never asked her. Greg had always assumed she was content enough, but he’d never _asked._ The grief welled up again as he realised he would never be able to ask her. Pouring another Scotch, Greg decided gravely that he would get very, very drunk and deal with the rest tomorrow.

+++

The next day was a blur of pain; for the first time in a long time he called in sick to work, feigning a migraine before downing ibuprofen and some long overdue water before collapsing back into bed. By the third day after the letter, Greg was back up again. He’d tipped the last of the Scotch down the sink, not wanting to tempt himself into drinking regularly. The knowledge that Martha would be so disappointed if he took that path made it easy. She was still influencing his life, and he was beginning to see a glimmer of how she could fit into his life, even when she was gone. It was comforting, or it would be when the sharp pain of grief softened and he could think about her without the prickle of tears and the wrench of loss. Sitting back at his desk, Greg was glad he hadn’t been called out to a new scene since before the letter; he had more than enough paperwork and chasing loose ends to deal with. He also had no desire to visit Baker Street, whether upstairs or down. He and John had exchanged a few text messages since the funeral, but they’d more or less left each other alone. Before Martha had gone, they’d never been massively close, having shared a pint a few times, and he’d never socialised with Sherlock on purpose. Greg knew she’d designed her will in particular to make sure there would be a connection between the three of them.

His phone pinged, pulling him back to the present.

 

_Downstairs, ten minutes if convenient. MH_

 

Greg sighed. Mycroft had been largely absent, though Greg had had barely any contact with Sherlock, so there was no real need for he and Mycroft to confer. He wondered what Mycroft wanted. The ten minutes evaporated and Greg found himself walking out onto the street and into the waiting black car. Mycroft was waiting, as Greg expected; he looked sombre, even compared to his usual reserved moue. It was the eyes, Greg decided. His eyes lacked the sardonic humour they often held, especially when he knew something Greg did not.

“Hi, Mycroft,” Greg said as he pulled the door shut. “What can I do for you?”

Mycroft did not answer for a long moment. Greg was still drained from the last few weeks, and he didn’t have the energy to ask again, or even send a pointed look. So he waited.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“What?” The question was so far from what Greg expected, he couldn’t even formulate an answer.

“How are you? With your recent bereavement I was wondering how you are coping with the adjustment to your life.” Hearing it for the second time, even with the clarification, it still didn’t make sense.

“Why are you asking me how I am?” Greg asked blankly. They had never spoken about his emotional state, even after the worst of days. Why was this different?

Mycroft blinked at him. “Because I was thinking about how this recent change would affect you. You and Martha had known each other for many years, I understand.”

Greg stared. “How the…no. I don’t want to know how you know that. My relationship with Martha has nothing to do with you. Why are you asking about me?” He glared at Mycroft, allowing the anger he still felt to rise and show on his face.  “You’ve never cared before.” The words hung in the air between them, ringing loud.

“I have always cared, Gregory.” Mycroft’s reply was so quiet it barely registered under the ringing that remained from Greg’s words. Speechless, Greg had one thought. _Get out of here_. Without a word he stepped out of the car, slamming the door without looking back. He strode up the street, not even registering the day or time. Walking past the entrance to Hyde Park, he turned left, the sudden quiet and calm of the greenery soothing his fractured nerves. He tried to breathe deeply, working to identify the splintered emotions he felt. They were spiking all over him, poking in different places without warning. Emotional pain, bewilderment, anger, fear, misunderstanding, confusion, frustration. Coping with any one, he probably had reserves; but it was like a mass assault, each attacking without mercy. Greg sat down on a bench, focussing all his energy on keeping calm; breathing measured and deep, eyes closed. Slowly he felt his pulse slacken, the roaring in his ears abating, leaving a slight ringing that was reminiscent of the ringing after those words in the car.

_I have always cared, Gregory._

What was that supposed to mean? Greg tried to think back to the times he’d met with Mycroft, if there had ever been any sign, a moment that something had hung in the air, a possibility of something more, but he came up empty. Mycroft had always appeared professional when he spoke with Greg. There had been flashes of it when Mycroft had spoken to Sherlock at the hospital, the times they’d stood over his bed, not knowing if he would live or die. But had it ever been directed at Greg? Not as far as he knew. Christmas at Baker Street had been the only real social event at which he’d seen Mycroft; even then, their conversation had been stilted and Greg had eventually drifted away to talk to others, leaving Mycroft to stand in the corner, looking out speculatively at the room. There had been quite a lot of eggnog that night, and the rest of the night had been fuzzy. He’d slept on the sofa and his neck had protested for a good week. Greg sat on the bench, reflecting on that night. Martha had been in full swing that night, chatting and pointing out pairs of people standing under the mistletoe. She’d always been watching people, making sure drinks were topped up, snacks were circulating.

Watching people…

Mistletoe…

Something to bring them closer together…

Secret letters…

_I’m turning my attention to you._

“Martha Hudson, you…” Greg burst out. Memories had swirled and coalesced, suddenly forming one picture, one shining image that made perfect sense. Martha had watched Mycroft at that Christmas party, and she knew Greg. She’d seen something in both of them and conspired to send them letters. Greg hadn’t seen Mycroft’s, of course, but he could make a good guess at what it said. Something about taking opportunities, not allowing life to pass him by, urging him not to be lonely. He shook his head, a smile pulling at his mouth despite his turmoil. She was a wily old woman, determined that he would not be alone. Now it was up to Greg to take the opportunity she had created for him.

“Fuck.”

Where was Mycroft? What the hell was he thinking now?

“Fuck. FUCK.” A man passing frowned at Greg, who absently raised hand in apology for his profanity. He had to find Mycroft and find out what he meant by his comment. _I have always cared, Gregory._ Was he really that good at masking his emotions? Greg started walking back towards his office, wondering what would be the best way to contact Mycr-

“Oof!” Greg walked around the blind corner back out of the park and right into someone. ~~~~

“Sorry,” he muttered, moving to step around him.

“Gregory.” The voice made him stop short.

“Mycroft.” Greg breathed, focussing on the figure in front of him. Mycroft’s face was, for the first time Greg could remember, registering an expression that might reflect his internal emotional state. He looked worried, Greg thought.

“She sent you a letter, didn’t she?” Greg blurted. He winced. No finesse at all, he berated himself.

“She did,” replied Mycroft.

“Did she…what did she say?” Greg asked tentatively. He had no idea what Martha had seen, but there must have been _something_ for her to write him a letter. Mycroft reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope, pausing before handing it to Greg.

“Are you sure?” Greg asked, hesitating. It seems almost invasive to read Mycroft’s correspondence.

“Please do,” Mycroft replied. He walked over to stand under a tree, giving Greg a moment of relative privacy to read the letter. It took a few seconds to open the envelope; his fingers were fumbling with nerves. Finally, he was looking once again at words Martha had set down on paper.

 

_Dear Mycroft,_

_We are not well acquainted, but our mutual interest in Sherlock grants us a bond. If you are reading this letter I have gone, moved on to whatever comes next, and it is very likely that there are things I would have liked to accomplish that remain incomplete. If this letter is redundant, please accept my congratulations; if not, please consider my words carefully._

_At the Christmas party recently, I spent a lot of time watching people. People drinking, and eating, talking to others and kissing under mistletoe. You were the sole exception, standing alone in the corner, watching. I watched you, Mycroft, and you didn’t watch the crowd in general as I did, or others might do. You watched Gregory Lestrade, and only him. Your face showed the truth of your heart, whether you wanted it to or not. You love him. It is hardly my place to point it out, but I understand there is nobody else in the position to do it for you. I am very fond of Gregory; I have known him since he was a small boy. He is like a son to me, and I would like nothing more in this life to see him happy, so I will tell you this: that Christmas night, he watched you. He was more subtle about it, but he knew where you were. Did you notice he spoke first to you when he arrived? I do not know if he has admitted it to himself either, and by the time you have read this one or both of you may have opened your heart to the other. If not, I beg you, Mycroft, do not allow this to pass you by. I know the loneliness of old age, and I wish it on nobody. For you and for my dear Gregory, please consider screwing your courage to the sticking plate._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Martha Hudson_

 

“Oh, Martha,” Greg whispered, looking down at her letter. She’d really gone all out here, pushing Mycroft hard. Taking a deep breath, Greg folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, buying himself some time as his heart started to pound again. If Mycroft had read this and acted, the inference was clear. Greg turned around, his eyes seeking Mycroft, who still stood under the same tree, calmly watching Greg.

“Subtlety was never her strong suit,” Greg said with a wobbly smile.

“Yes, I gathered that,” Mycroft replied.

“She was very good at reading people, though,” Greg whispered. He consciously closed the door on the negative emotions in his head and stepped in, kissing Mycroft without hesitation. His fingers curled around the back of Mycroft’s head, bringing his mouth in closer, deeper, tasting Mycroft. There was a moment when he thought Mycroft might pull away; the startle reflex relaxed, though and Mycroft sank into the kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around Greg’s waist. Greg could feel Mycroft’s breath on his face, the sound of their breathing combining as they both reacted to the new sensation. It wasn’t until Mycroft gave a groan that shot fire to Greg’s groin that he pulled away, panting.

“She was right.” Mycroft said, his voice incredulous. “I thought she was…delusional, perhaps.”

Greg chuckled. “You still took her advice, though.”

“I did,” Mycroft replied. “Worth the risk, I felt.”

Greg grinned at him. “I think Martha would approve.”


	4. John and Sherlock

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was sharper than usual, he could hear it. But this was important. Generally the mail wasn’t worth mentioning, but these envelopes would not be stabbed to their mantelpiece. “Sherlock!”

The silence was absolute. John swore. He had no idea where Sherlock was right now, which was both a pain in the arse and a worry. Ever since Martha had passed away Sherlock had been disappearing again. Never for too long, and he was always clean when he came home, but John would never not worry about him. The past was too powerful to simply dismiss.

John looked at the two envelopes, each inscribed with Martha’s distinctive handwriting. He faltered for a moment before taking both into the kitchen. He set them on the table, staring at his own name while the kettle boiled. John could feel himself procrastinating, letting the tea steep properly, adding milk and watching it swirl into the tea. Finally there was nothing else to do but open the letter. The prickle of tears began with the affectionate opening.

 

_Dear John, ~~~~_

_I hope this letter finds you well, although if you are reading it, I am gone. I have had a good life, with my share of great joy and pain, though I hope a little more joy. You have experienced more than your share of pain, John, and my dearest wish is that you will allow joy into your life to balance it out. I can see you and Sherlock have a deep connection. You move around each other like a matched pair, and I would challenge you to say you do not love him. I know Sherlock as well as anyone, I think, and I can assure you he feels more deeply for you than anyone I have ever seen him with. I have known him since he was a very young man, and although he has grown older, his fear of emotional rejection has not abated. He is a fragile creature, John, which I think you know. Have courage and show him the extent of your care. Consider it my last wish, if that makes a difference to you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Martha Hudson_

 

John read the letter several times, phrases sticking in his mind, others swirling around his brain. He wanted to smile and shake his head but the tears down his face precluded even that. Martha was a devil, and a matchmaker, and a soft hearted old woman, and she had never stopped believing John and Sherlock belonged together. He’d been ignoring her pointed comments and not-so-subtle innuendo about their relationship almost since he moved into Baker Street. Her quiet disappointment when he brought home a (female) date time after time was something he always steeled himself against, much like Sherlock’s inevitable strop on the same occasions. John suspected Greg was in on it, too; he and Martha were thick as thieves, Greg having known Martha even before Sherlock did. He was far more subtle than she had been, but John had caught pointed looks, casual suggestions, carefully probing questions at various times. He wondered why Greg was so invested in the fantasy. Perhaps he was humouring Martha, though it seemed a little cruel to do so. Either way, John thought sadly, neither of them would get their wish. Sherlock just wasn’t interested, and that was that.

 

With a start, John realised Sherlock had entered their flat, taking the chair opposite and staring blankly at the envelope bearing his name on the table. John could see his brain working, recognising the handwriting and trying to deduce the reason for Martha having left him correspondence. As John watched, Sherlock dragged his eyes up, registering John’s shaking hand, still clutching his own letter.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet, as it has been in the weeks since Martha’s passing. He had been to scenes, made his deductions with the same speed and accuracy as before, but something had been lacking. The excitement was gone, the spark that made him enthralling to watch had faded. John knew Sherlock missed her, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Their quiet nights in now were sombre, the lack of conversation less comfortable and more morose. John wished he could help Sherlock, but his tentative attempts at conversation were thwarted, not with scathing looks or biting remarks but a sad silence and carefully closed bedroom door. The balance between respecting privacy and keeping an eye on Sherlock meant John often wavered, standing in front of the closed door wondering if he should knock. Several times he did, to no answer. Several times he did not, turning away with a sinking heart.

“Do you want me to read it?” John asked him quietly. After a long pause Sherlock nodded, his eyes not meeting John’s. John moved quietly, the crinkle of paper jarring in the otherwise silent air. He unfolded the paper, the few words drawing his eyes before he could open his mouth. His breathing caught, and he flicked his eyes up at Sherlock, instinctively looking to see if Sherlock had deduced the contents. A calm face looked back patiently, and he raised one eyebrow fractionally.

John drew a deep breath. There was no salutation.

 

_Trust him, Sherlock._

 

He read the words aloud before looking up at Sherlock. “That’s all it says.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, pushed back his chair and made his way to his bedroom, pausing at the door, half turning back. “Thank you, John.”

“Of course,” replied John quietly, watching as Sherlock gently closed the door. He picked up his tea, making a face as he realised it was stone cold. His brain was considering the possible implications of the note for Sherlock as he made tea on autopilot, refilling the kettle and staring out the window. It was impossible for him to know what Martha had meant. There had to have been other conversations, things Sherlock and Martha had shared that this was a reference to. Absently, John smoothed out his own note, reading phrases again as the kettle bubbled behind him. Looking between them, John froze. A bolt of understanding hit him as he considered the two letters. She thought they could be together. She wanted them together. She would send them the same message tailored for each personality, hoping one or both would take her advice. Words from his own letter jumped out, their meaning suddenly expanding to fill his mind.

_…I can assure you he feels more deeply for you than anyone I have ever seen him with…_

_…fear of emotional rejection…_

_…have courage and show him…_

Martha knew Sherlock better than anybody, even John. If Sherlock…he could barely form the idea. If Sherlock had any kind of feelings for him, Martha would know about it. She would also know how likely _(unlikely)_ he was to tell John. Looking at both letters now, John could see the two sides of the same message, Martha using her knowledge of both men to push them towards each other.

Sherlock’s letter was about trust.

John’s letter was about action.

Without the first, the second would fail.

Without the second, the first was moot.

It was an irrefutable fact in John’s mind that Sherlock understood Martha’s message. Whether he would take her advice, John did not know. He stared at the wood grain of their table, realising in the back of his mind that the table was clear of experiments and assorted body parts, a mark of Sherlock’s apathy in the past weeks. In the absolute stillness, John heard the whisper of a landlady (not housekeeper). The almost-scent of freshly baked scones teased him.

“Oh, Martha,” he whispered, “I hope you’re right.”

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his letter and walked over to Sherlock’s door. Raising his hand to knock felt like an out of body experience; the blood pounding in his ears washed out all other sound, including any possible acknowledgement. John counted to five and opened the door, not knowing what to expect.

Sherlock’s blinds were closed, the room dim and cool. John blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust until he could see the shape curled up on the bed.

“Sherlock?” asked John. There was no answer, but he entered anyway, shapes making themselves known in the gloom. The edge of the bed was clear, so he sat down. There was no indication that Sherlock knew he was there, or was even awake. His breathing was slow and deep, so John decided to just speak.

“I’d like to read my letter to you,” John said quietly. There was no movement, so he took out his phone, thumbed the torch on and directed it at the page. His voice shook as he began; the words were seared into his brain but voicing them lent a gravitas they had lacked before now. To make sure he could get through it, John spoke the words while concentrating his attention on Sherlock. He felt the body beside him stiffen, the tension radiating out as John began to speak. So he was awake, then. As John continued, his voice low, he was hyper aware of Sherlock’s rigid position. It wasn’t until he finished, whispering Martha’s name, that Sherlock moved. He sat up, legs over the edge of the bed, back to John.

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock asked.

“Do what?” John replied.

“I wasn’t talking to you, John.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

John ran Sherlock’s first question again bearing this in mind.

“Why would she tell me about you?” John ventured. He thought he saw the dark head nod. “Well…” said John, and his mind went blank. He thought for a long moment.

“She wanted us to be happy,” he said finally.

“And she believed that would happen if…” Sherlock trailed off.

John nodded even though there was no way Sherlock could see him. “Yes,” he whispered. They sat in silence for a long moment, John wondering what to do next. He had no idea how Sherlock felt about this. One thing he did know was how long Sherlock could sit in silence for a very long time.

With a sigh, John stood up.

“Wait.” Sherlock’s voice stopped John in his tracks. When John turned around, Sherlock was standing in front of him. His eyes were wide, even in the dim light. John waited.

“I…I trust you, John.” The words were stilted, but John could hear the pleading behind them. He knew Sherlock well enough to know how he manipulated John into taking the lead when he was out of his depth. Even more so, he understood the coping mechanism of the uncertain soul. Taking a deep breath, John closed the distance between them. Sherlock’s face was pale, eyes wide and unreadable in the almost dark. Several long breaths and Sherlock swallowed audibly. With no resistance facing him, John raised one hand, pressing it to Sherlock’s cheek.

“I’ve got you,” whispered John. “I won’t let you go.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed, his face tilting to press into John’s touch. John felt Sherlock’s shaking breath exhale onto his wrist. Lifting up onto his toes, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s other cheek, feeling the scrape of stubble against stubble. He made to pull away but Sherlock turned his head, lips hitting John’s mouth somewhat off centre. John shifted, aligning their mouths more fully. Sherlock’s mouth moved hesitantly at first, and John moved with him, the slow slide gentle and comforting in the darkened room. When they drew apart, the stars behind his eyes took a few blinks to fade.

“I think Martha would approve.” John suggested, hoping Sherlock could deduce his smile from his warm tone of voice. The rumble of his hum of agreement resonated through John’s hands, resting on Sherlock’s chest.

“Tea, John?” said Sherlock. John turned, hand sliding down to take Sherlock’s hand, and together they walked back into the light.


End file.
